


Muscle Memory

by Hay_Bails



Series: Muscle Memory [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Actually Not Rorty, But it isn't really, Can be read through C-137cest goggles, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Sad, but hopeful, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: With Jerry out of the picture, Rick finds that being master of the house isn't quite as easy as he remembered.Set post-S3e01. Spoilers ahead.





	1. Chapter 1

            "H-hey, um," Morty stammered. His grandfather sat in the dim sunset shadows adorning the garage, attention fixed upon his workbench. It seemed things had finally quieted down.

            "What?" Rick's voice was free of its usual stutter. His flask, despite his earlier thirst for vodka, was nowhere to be seen.

            "I'm, y'know. Sorry," the boy offered quietly.

            "Sorry for what?"

            "That I..." Morty blushed a deep crimson. "Oh, geez. I'm sorry that I shot you."

            "Don't worry about it," Rick said, waving away the apology without even looking at his grandson. He poured a drop of something into a beaker full of something else.

            "Y-y-you're not angry?"

            "No," Rick said. And it was true. He did feel... something. But it wasn't anger.

            "But-"

            "Look, Morty," Rick cut in exasperatedly. "If I didn't want you to shoot me I wouldn't have given you the gun."

            Morty shuffled in place, wanting to say something but not quite feeling brave enough to give it a voice. Rick was having none of it.

            "My god, _what?"_ He turned to give Morty a vicious glare.

            "Oh, I-I-I, um, well you see, I-"

            "Spit it out."

            Morty blanched. "I didn't read the note," he squeaked. "On the gun. I didn't read it."

            Rick was quiet for some time. He faced his workstation.

            "I know," he finally muttered.

            "You... knew? This whole time?"

            "What do you take me for, some kind of... some kind of... average-minded person?" Morty raised an eyebrow. It was a weak comeback and both of them knew it. The scientist brought his sleeve to his face, wiping away what might have been spit, or perhaps was something else entirely. When he turned to face his grandson again, his eyes were tinged the faintest shade of pink, though his face was stoic.

            "I left the note for Summer. Not you."

            "So... wait, what?" Morty's brain shifted up another gear. He looked hurt. "You knew I would shoot you? R-regardless of the note?"

            Rick unconsciously rubbed his forehead. "Yeah."

            The sound of Beth rummaging through the kitchen for another drink could be heard through the thin garage walls. A few cars passed by outside.

            Morty's eyes stung. "Why would you let me do that to you?"

            Rick's shoulder's slumped forward just a fraction, barely enough to be noticeable. He looked strangely sober.

            "You know why."

            Morty choked on a sob. Then, without warning, he flung a fist. His knuckles connected sloppily with Rick's cheekbone, eliciting a sharp thud. Morty's grandfather probed the injury with a forefinger, then turned to face his grandson with a curiously blank expression.

            "Is that it?" he asked, opening his arms in an invitation to continue.

            Morty made a horrible noise. "Oh god, R-r-r-"

            "Come on," Rick egged him on. "Is that all you got?" The skin around his eye was already beginning to blacken. It hurt.

            "Rick, I'm, I'm sorry Rick," Morty cried.

            "No," Rick pronounced slowly. "You want me dead. Out of the picture." It wasn't an accusation; simply a statement of truth.

            "No! No, never. I-"

            "You shot me, M-Morty."

            If he was being fair with himself, the punch had hurt more than the actual (fake) gunshot. But it was the principle of the thing that counted, and his own grandson _had_ actively tried to kill him.

            His eye was beginning to water. He told himself it was just the pain from the bruise.

            "R-Rick," Morty hiccupped. The teenager's face was coated in salt tears. Rick stood stiffly, watching him snivel. He turned his gaze to the concrete, feeling hollow.

            "I'd let you shoot me a hundred times," he croaked. It wasn't the kind of statement that could be made easily, and he turned his back to the boy, focusing his attention once more on the experiment sprawled along the workstation.

            "Rick, no," Morty sobbed. "I would- I would never-"

           The old man ignored him.

            "C'mon, Rick... Rick, please..."

            When Rick moved the beaker from one end of the workbench to the other, his hand shook. Morty brushed his knuckles with his fingertips.

            "Please t-talk to me," he begged.

            Rick shook his head, not trusting his voice. His eyes remained downcast. Morty bit back another sob.

            "We don't have to a-actually talk," he suggested brokenly.

            "You're contradicting yourself, M-Mort-"

            Morty threw his arms around his grandfather.

            "Morty," Rick finished in a whisper, his voice cracking. He didn't dare reach up to wipe his eyes. He shivered involuntarily.

            "I'm sorry," Morty wailed against his back, voice muffled by the thick white fabric of his lab coat. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-"

            "Holy shit, would you shut up already?" Rick squirmed out of his grasp, leaving his grandson gasping and clutching at air. He stood and, a bit more gently, wrapped his arms around Morty. The boy burrowed into his sternum.

            "I'm s-so sorry," Morty wept.

            "Fucking broken record," Rick remarked hoarsely. He cleared his throat, squeezing the kid a bit tighter.

            Morty cried until he couldn't anymore. The sun gradually disappeared, leaving the garage dark and cool. Rick pulled his grandson even closer, grateful for the warmth of his smaller body.

            "What was prison like?" Morty eventually asked in a tiny voice. The brush of his lips against Rick's blue polyester shirt elicited a shiver from the older man.

            Rick thought for a moment. "Lonely," he decided.

            "Did they... _do_ anything to you?"

            Rick chuckled drily. "Nothing I wasn't prepared for."

            There was an awkward pause.

            "Are, uh, are you okay?" Morty whispered.

            No answer.

            "Rick..." he sighed.

            "Does it matter?" Rick bristled.

            "Yes!" Morty squeaked angrily. "Yes it matters." He pulled away and looked up at his grandfather. Rick looked old. His eye - the one that wasn't blackened and swollen - was ringed with purple, tired skin. His mouth was taut at the corners.

            And he was crying.

            He didn't hide his face. He was tired of hiding, tired of running. But he averted his gaze all the same, vision blurring as he looked toward the floor, toward the ceiling, in every direction but Morty's.

            "Fuck," Morty whispered, feeling guilty. He brought a hand up to Rick's face, brushing the wet trail aside with his thumb. Rick reflexively reached up, catching the boy's fingers in his own.

            "What have you done to me?" the old man asked in a broken whisper, not expecting an answer.

            "I'm sorry," Morty mumbled again, ashamed.

            Rick inhaled shakily. "It's okay."

            "No, it isn't."

            Rick's eyes squeezed tightly shut. He whimpered. His body ached, his eye hurt, and he was so, so tired. For a blessed moment, Morty wove his fingers through his own. Then the boy was crying again. Rick bit back his own discomfort like he always did, and pulled his grandson close.

            "Shh," he whispered, trying to soothe Morty as well as himself. "God damn, kid," he breathed.

            "I don't know w-w-what else to say."

            "Don't say anything," Rick murmured, rocking them forward and back. His arms snaked around the teen's shoulders, and Morty snuggled closer.

            "Why don't you hate me?"

            "Why would I?" Rick asked, surprisingly tender.

            "Even after I tried to..."

            "To kill me?"

            "Yeah," Morty answered rather obviously. "And for what? For saying something annoying? I felt so much... so much _loathing_ that I just... I couldn't help it."

            "Yeah," Rick sighed. "Yeah, I know."

            "You tried to make me hate you... on purpose?"

            Rick searched his eyes. His grandson was so vulnerable.

            "Don't worry about it, kiddo."

            "I don't... I don't hate you, Rick."

            Rick sniffed, and waited a long time to speak again. "I know."

            Morty worked up some courage. "Do you hate me?"

            "Morty."

            "Just answer the question." He hid his face in the fabric of Rick's lab coat again.

            "I..." Rick's voice broke. "No," he admitted. "No, I don't hate you."

            Morty sighed. "Good," he breathed with relief.

            Rick pressed his lips to the crown of Morty's head.

            "You're a good kid, Morty."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW family fight, accusations of pedophilia and incest

            Beth was passed out at the kitchen table.

            Rick didn't do anything for a long time. He sat quietly at the chair opposite his daughter, regarding her sadly. Yes, she was the spitting image of her father, right down to the pallid skin and the thin-but-there trail of drool running from the corner of her mouth as she slept.

            Morty had gone to bed, and the house was a strained sort of quiet. Summer was nowhere to be found, but Rick guessed that she had gone to bed also. It was late.

            His eyes closed tightly. God, what was he _doing?_

            He covered one of his daughters' hands with his own. She did not stir. He laid his head upon the wooden grain of the table, mirroring her pose almost exactly. His fingers tightened around hers, just a little.

            "Hm... dad?" she asked, barely looking up.

            "Hey sweetie," he replied, clearing his throat. He pulled his forehead away from the cool surface of the table.

            "Where's... Morty..." she mumbled.

            "He's asleep," Rick responded, not letting go of her hand. "You should be too."

            Beth hiccupped. "No, I need... um."

            "What do you need, sweetheart?"

            "God, I don't know," she moaned. "I thought, Jerry, but, he's gone," she said, voice rising nearly an octave in pitch. Her eyes clouded.

            "Not you too," Rick breathed. He ran his fingers along her cheek, wiping away the slow, dehydrated tears which fell lazily toward her jawline.

            "Dad..." Beth coughed. "Please..."

            "I've got you," Rick murmured, standing and collecting her into his arms. Her blond hair tickled his nose.

            "Don't leave," she pleaded.

            "I won't."

            "How can I trust you?!" she screamed, loudly and without warning. Her arms pushed him back and she swayed when she stood. "All you've ever done is... is disappear."

            "Beth..."

            "Damn it, Dad! You spend more time with _Morty_ than you do with me."

            Rick recoiled as if he had been burned. How could he deny it?

            "I..."

            "You might as well just admit you're a, a pedophile and get on with it."

            "Beth."

            "Admit it!" She produced a wine glass and pointed it at him, stem first. "You love your grandson more than your own daughter."

            Rick shook his head. He had never felt so confused. "Beth, you're drunk," he protested.

            "SO ARE YOU!" she shrieked. "You're always," she hiccupped, "drunk."

            "Mom?" Morty emerged through the kitchen doorway, rubbing at his sore eyes. "What's wrong?"

            "Go back to bed, Morty," Rick muttered.

            "No," Beth argued. "He's _my_ son and _I_ tell him when to go to bed."

            "Rick, what's going on?"

            "Nothing, kiddo. I-it's between me and your mother."

            "No!" Beth shouted. "Morty," she announced grandly, catching the back of her chair for balance, "your grandfather has gone too far!"

            "M-mom?" Morty asked, confused.

            "It's the obvious explanation," Beth continued. "I don't know why I didn't think... obviously he's in love with you." Her face scrunched up at the corners.

            "Um..."

            "Beth!" Rick yelled in warning.

            Beth tottered over to her son, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. "Well, I won't stand for it. You... you eat our food, you take over the garage, you don't pay rent, and that's fine. But this is the last straw! You want to undermine my household just to be with my son..."

            "Mom!" Morty shrieked.

            "What the _actual_ fuck, Beth?" He put on an angry facade, but truthfully he was shocked. Did his own child think so lowly of him? "I know drinking lets you talk about your feelings, but y-y-y-y- uh, this is just blatantly false."

            "Mom!" Morty said again. "W-w-what... me and _grandpa Rick?_ That's disgusting!"

            Rick snuck a glance at Morty. Disgusting? The word stung despite its necessity. He filed the feeling away for later observation - now was not the time. Beth's chest rose and fell quickly with her newfound anger. Her knuckles gripped the chair so tightly that they were beginning to turn a furious white. Summer had yet to make an appearance despite the shouting, so Rick revised his earlier hypothesis. Summer had snuck out.

            "Beth..." Rick said, forcing his voice back to its normal timbre. "I realize you're angry, but... you're wrong."

            "Y-yeah," Morty agreed, nodding so quickly that Rick was amazed the boy's neck didn't snap. "Rick is gross."

            Rick shot him a quick glare before focusing his attention back to his hysterical child. Her skin was incredibly pink.

            "Do you understand?" he asked.

            "Fuck..." she whimpered.

            "W-w-whatever you think we're doing, we're not." Morty affirmed, still shaking his head.

            Beth was silent for a long time, head hung in apparent shame.

            "Sweetie?" Rick tried, raising an exploratory hand to her face. She batted it away with incredible speed.

            "Fuck you," she hissed icily.

            Rick's mouth twitched downward before he schooled his face back into its regular nonchalance, eyebrows meeting angrily at the exact center of his forehead. Without speaking, he walked out of the kitchen.

            Once out of his daughter's range of vision, he curled a shaking hand around his nose and mouth and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He tried not to breathe.

            "Um... Rick?" Morty asked. He had followed him.

            Stupid kid.

            Rick shook his head, not moving his hand or opening his eyes. Saltwater collected dangerously in his tear ducts, threatening to spill onto his cheeks.

            "Rick..." Morty tried again. He reached forward as if to touch his grandfather, then blushed profusely and retracted his hand. His mothers' accusations still rang loud in his ears. Beth's own crying could be heard clearly through the open door. Rick shuddered. He slid to the floor, his lab coat pooling behind him.

            Morty's gaze flicked helplessly from his inebriated mother to his wrecked grandfather, separated from each other by mere feet.

            Oh god, he thought.

            What should he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry 
> 
> I am so sorry 
> 
> (said the sinner)
> 
> Story TBC(?)


	3. Chapter 3

            Morty took a hesitant step toward his grandfather.

            "R-rick," he said. Through eyes blurred with tears, Rick could sense Morty's hand hovering just over his shoulder. Would he touch him? He inhaled deeply, preemptively relaxing.

            He would forgive him. Of course he would - Morty always forgave him.

            Morty didn't forgive him.

            Morty slapped him.

            Not hard, of course. He was undoubtedly still feeling guilty over the shooting and the black eye. But he slapped him nonetheless. Rick imagined he could feel each unique digit forming an indelible imprint upon his face. The slap was a mark of shame.

            Rick hiccupped in shock.

            "You can't make someone choose between you and their parent!" Morty shrieked. "Th-that's just fucked!"

            The teen shuffled awkwardly for a moment before walking uncomfortably back into the kitchen. Rick listened to the sounds of a chair being pulled forward and Morty's helpless comforting murmurs. An involuntary sob escaped Rick's throat. He hung his head as low as his neck would allow, and proceeded to feel sorry for himself. He sulked for a minute. Maybe more.

            No, he decided after listening to Beth's inconsolate cry. He wouldn't stoop to this level - at the very least, he wouldn't do it on the floor. Feeling weaker than usual, he pushed himself slowly up and shambled down the hallway. For good measure, he slammed the door to the garage behind him. He didn't lock it, but nobody came.

            He approached the grimy shelves, his hard-won prize after so many years of being locked away. His fingers traced the cardboard box labeled "TIME TRAVEL STUFF." A thin film of dust coated his skin. He wiped it off on his pants.

            Despite her alcoholism, Beth wasn't a bad person. She was just unlucky. She was born at a time in Rick's life when he simply wasn't ready to commit to being a father. Rick didn't particularly feel like a bad person either. But prison had hardened Rick Sanchez in all the ways that counted. His priorities had dwindled until only one goal remained within his sights: he had to get his family back.

            He sighed. He wondered when Morty had become a son to him.

            He wondered if Morty would come to the garage any time soon.

            Rick knelt beside his desk, rummaging underneath for the handle to his emergency mini-fridge. It opened after a few tugs, coughing a fetid plume of fog into the air. Unbothered, he reached in and cracked open a can of Slurm. He wasn't quite ready to give up this brief, clarifying sobriety just yet. The soda was warm but he gulped it down regardless. The simple muscle memory of raising drink to mouth and drowning himself from the inside out was enough.

            He wiped a few stray drops from his chin when he had finished, feeling somewhat stronger. He leaned back against the leg of the desk.

            "Grandpa Rick?" asked a voice.

            Rick banged his head against the lip of the table when he jumped.

            "Summer?" he grouched, rubbing his sore scalp. "How did you get in here?"

            She stared. "The garage door is open."

            Rick looked. It was.

            "Are you okay?" his granddaughter asked. "You look like you were in a boxing match."

            "Did I win?"

            "Hell no." She offered him a hand and pulled him up. "Besides, your new body never had a training partner."

            "You better have kept in shape while I was in prison," he warned. "Otherwise I'm gonna beat you a-at sparring."

            "You wish, old man."

            Despite himself, Rick grinned. "How long were you out?" he asked.

            "Not long. Just drove home."

            "You have a car?"

            "Duh."

            He looked outside again. A small red sedan was parallel parked under a street light in front of the yard.

            "I guess I've been gone a while," he admitted.

            "Yeah." Summer rubbed her arm uncomfortably. There was a long pause. "Hey, can I have some of that Slurm?"

            "That stuff will rot your brains," Rick replied with a belch and a shake of the head. He leaned over and grabbed a brown bottle from the mini-fridge, popping the lid off on the edge of the workbench. "Drink beer instead."

            Summer shrugged and took a long sip. Her nose wrinkled.

            "Yuck. This is warm."

            "Well, the fridge _has_ been unplugged for two years."

            "Yeah..."

            "Yep."

            "So..."

            "So," Rick replied sagely. "You came back. I thought you'd gone to find y-your father."

            "Ew," Summer said. "Dad? No way. I watched the alien dismemberments in the school courtyard until I got bored, then I came home."

            "Oh." Rick was surprised. "You mean... you're not upset that he's gone?"

            "Nah. He honestly started being kind of a dick during that whole insect regime thing."

            "So y-you don't miss him?"

            "Not really. I mean, maybe I will later. But right now? Not so much."

            "I see."

            Summer sipped her beer.

            "Did you and Morty make up yet?" she asked. He winced.

            "Uh, define 'making up.'"

            "He's still mad at you?"

            "Yeah." Rick's shoulders slumped. "I don't blame him."

            "He'll come around," Summer encouraged, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "He loves you, grandpa Rick."

            His throat tightened uncomfortably. "Hm," he replied noncommittally.

            "Serious. He was devastated when you left."

            "He didn't seem too devastated when I came back."

            Summer appraised him thoughtfully.

            "You want to know the truth?" she asked. Rick wasn't sure he did. Summer gave it to him anyway. "I think he's a lot like you. Maybe more than anyone thinks. When you left, he started to hide his true feelings under all this anger. But I think deep down, he really misses you."

            Rick turned his face away. God, not again.

            "Yo, grandpa Rick?"

            He shook his head. His shoulders hitched.

            "Grandpa Rick, are you _crying?"_

            "No!" he huffed, in a tone that told her he was definitely crying.

            "Oh. My god."

            "Just... just fuck off," he mumbled halfheartedly.

            "Grandpa..."

            "Just go, Summer!"

            Summer took one more long look at him and went without another word. The suburban stars twinkled icily outside, muted by street lamps. Rick sank to his knees for the second time that night, weeping hot tears into his cold hands.

            Alone.

            Then Summer came back.

            "You see this shit?" she yelled. Rick was in too much of a state to acknowledge her. His face remained buried in his palms. "You fucking see what you did?"

            "I-I-I-I'm sorry," he sobbed hoarsely.

            "You see how much you hurt him?!"

            Rick wrapped one arm around his chest and squeezed his ribs.

            "I... I didn't... I'm s-"

            "You're a fucking _moron,_ Morty," Summer concluded.

            A soft, "oh geez" sounded from the back of the garage. Rick's heart stopped.

            "M-Morty," he gasped.

            "Rick," Morty whispered uncomfortably from the doorway. "I didn't know."

            Rick fell forward until his forehead kissed the cold concrete floor. "Don't... don't look at me," he pleaded.

            "Oh, Rick," Morty repeated. He knelt on the floor beside his grandfather and placed his hand upon a stiff, skeletal spine. "Rick, I didn't know."

            Summer sat quietly at his other side, placing her own hand upon his opposite shoulder. "Told you so," she murmured, lightly squeezing his collarbone.

            Together, Morty and Summer lifted their broken grandfather back up to sitting. He kept a hand tightly clamped over his eyes, determined to maintain some semblance of control - and in the process, demonstrating his weakness instead. With a glance and a nod at each other, Summer and Morty hugged him tightly from either side.

            "Morty?" Beth's voice queried from the doorway. "Summer? Are you in here?"

            All of them froze, save Rick, whose muscles spasmed periodically as he cried.

            "Dad?" she asked in a broken, tearstained voice of her own.

            "Fuck," Rick whimpered.

            And then the small broken family was finally whole, holding tightly to each other on the floor of Rick's - their - garage. The night was cold, but the embrace was warm, and if anyone saw the four of them through the wide-open carport door, they at least had the good grace not to comment on the scene.

            Beth clung tightly to her father, vowing to never let him go again (though she had doubts she would remember this drunken promise in the morning).

            Morty never stopped apologizing, though of course he was forgiven.

            Summer laid her head on her grandfather's warm, bony shoulder, a silent and bonding agreement flowing between her skin and his.

            And Rick?

            Rick had his kids back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of feel bad for this story? But not really at all? 
> 
> (Sorry Rick) 
> 
> Ten points if you caught the Futurama reference, twenty if you caught the Undertale (it's subtle shit, baby)
> 
> Anyway, that's all she wrote. Wubbalubbadubdub bitches, I'm out


End file.
